


Through the Bitter Water

by kyrilu



Series: The Religion of Loneliness [1]
Category: What We Do in the Shadows (TV)
Genre: First Time, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:34:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24977752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: It’s raining when Guillermo returns to Staten Island for the third time in two years.
Relationships: Guillermo de la Cruz/Nandor the Relentless
Series: The Religion of Loneliness [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807969
Comments: 23
Kudos: 155





	Through the Bitter Water

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a longer 'verse - there's an explanation for what Guillermo's been up to, but I didn't want to infodump it here entirely, sorry. Um, I really hope I get around to writing the other stories I vaguely have in mind that tie into this, but for now, here's some porn?

It’s raining when Guillermo returns to Staten Island for the third time in two years.

The sound of the doorbell is nearly inaudible at first. In his and Nadja’s music room, Laszlo plays a Baroque melody that segues into swinging ragtime. In the library, Colin Robinson tells Nadja about some absurd conflict between his co-workers -- his tone dry and bland -- but despite her half-droopiness, she’s admirably soldiering on.

“So, you’re telling me that Susan didn’t invite Karen to her baby shower? Even though she promised that she’d be like an aunt to the new little one? That’s very discourteous, very rude.” 

“Oh, yes,” Colin Robinson says, steepling his fingers. “Karen forgot to tell Susan that the shepherd's pie she brought to the last potluck wasn’t vegan friendly, only vegetarian and gluten-free. And there was that incident last month when Karen made an Instagram post about living authentically #No Filter, which Susan interpreted as a personal affront. It escalated into a brouhaha where they began competing to see who would receive the most likes. It was quite a war of fancy food pics and strategically posing in front of the sunset."

Nandor says, “Colin Robinson, hush up about this Etherweb war.” With a frown, he looks up from the tangram booklet that he’s paging through. “Did you hear something?” 

Over the hush of rain, the doorbell rings again. It’s more clear this time. Laszlo’s harpsichord playing from below has dropped into something more quieter and depressing.

“It’s too late in the night for more door-to-door mongers,” Nadja says. “Do you think it could be--?” 

Nandor drops the booklet, turns into a bat, and streaks forward. He’s reverting back to his normal form, pulling open the door, the hinges straining from his strength, and then he sees--

Guillermo. Rain-streaked and blood-streaked. His hair is a drenched mop of curls; his coat is scuffled and scarlet. He has a pack slung across his shoulder. Nandor can smell the silver on him, but it is still _Guillermo_ , who blinks tired eyes at him. 

“It’s not my blood,” Guillermo says, in explanation. “-- It’s been a long month. Long, _long_ month _._ Can I crash for the night?”

Nandor says, “You did not reply to my last texted message.”

“They don’t have service in the Seventh Dimension.” 

“Where the f--? Did you fall into a witch portal again?” He would’ve thought that Guillermo would’ve known better after what happened last Walpurgis Night. 

“No, it was this really dumb test thing.” Guillermo sighs, and he steps forward. “Can I come in?” 

Nandor lets him brush past him. “You should’ve telephoned me that you were coming. There is no human food in the house.”

“I already had Subway with the others." He nods at Nadja and Colin Robinson, who have now migrated to the living room. “Hey, guys.”

“Howdy, buckaroo. Did you get my last email? I’ve started my own podcast. It’s the perfect educational entertainment for all your roadtripping adventures. Everyone’s got a podcast these days, and I thought it’d be worthwhile to get in on the game.”

“It’s on my to-listen list,” Guillermo assures Colin Robinson. In an undertone, he confides to Nandor, “I’ve been using it to help me fall asleep. Tonya almost threw my phone out the van window when it accidentally played on the speakers -- the Bluetooth was still connected.”

“Colin Robinson makes us listen to his podded cast, too,” Nandor mutters back. “I do not understand the obsession with investing in apple bushels. Farming is a boring livelihood for peasants.”

A flicker of an amused smile crosses Guillermo’s face. “Yeah, the stock market _is_ boring.” 

“Ahem,” Nadja says, clearing her throat. “Stop whispering, the two of you. I take it you’re going to be our guest for tonight, Guillermo de Medici? Well, please stop dripping blood over the carpet like a butchered goat and go to the washroom, please.” 

“‘Course,” Guillermo says. “I’ll catch up with you all later.” He yawns, and he makes his way down the hallway.

Nandor finds himself trailing behind him. Without a regular familiar in the household, everything is a little more dustier. The portrait frames aren’t as shiny; the bloodied goblets and bowls in the sink aren’t always washed. But he’s managed to work out some kind of system -- assigning simple tasks to himself and the other vampires -- and, okay, it turns out that witches will perform cleaning spells in exchange for some ancient alchemical texts and a bit of vampire mucus. 

(Nadja and Lilith’s feud isn’t a problem any longer. Nandor had once walked in on the two of them and Laszlo engaging in passionate intercourse while Nadja’s doll cheered them on. Nandor had walked out.) 

“You don’t need to follow me to the bathroom,” Guillermo says, without looking behind him. 

“You finally bothered to visit,” Nandor says, and he reaches out. His thumb glides against the side of Guillermo’s neck, mapping out a path that doesn’t intersect with the silver chain from which his crucifix hangs. The blood and the raindrops smear on the pad of his finger. “What happened?” 

Nandor notes, “This isn’t vampire blood.”

“Me and Claude and Tonya found the VHS,” Guillermo says, suddenly, blurting out. “The Vampire Hunters Society. They listened to what I had to say, but they didn’t trust us. I mean, I’ve been getting the reputation of hanging out with supernatural creatures of all stripes, and the Mosquito Collectors of the Tri-State area aren’t affiliated with any long-standing vampire killing groups, so why would they?” 

Nandor’s lip curls. “So they threw you into this Seventh Dimension?” Whatever that is. Idly, he wonders if there’s a Sixty-Ninth Dimension. 

“I agreed -- it was part of a deal,” Guillermo says, weary. “Nandor, let me get all this blood off.” 

“What do you take me for, some wild creature that’s going to eat dried blood? That’s unhygienic. And I just ate a couple of hours ago. There were these door-to-door Joseph Witness people.” 

“Give me ten minutes--” 

In the end, Nandor waits outside the washroom door, tapping his foot impatiently. The shower water is running, shallower sounds than the rain outside, which continues to pour and pitter-patter. 

This is awkward, he thinks. It is more awkward than Guillermo’s last two visits, where at least he had some pretense for returning to the house. Now, he is here, battered and bloodied, dark circles underneath his eyes and smelling of silver more strongly than ever.

“So, Guillermo Dalai Lama is back.” 

Nandor starts. “Laszlo! Don’t sneak up on me like some kind of… sneaking-up person.” 

Laszlo shrugs, unrepentant. “You’re the one not paying attention, old chum. What’s he here for? Any vampires to hunt in the area? Hope it’s not anyone we know. Unless it’s Elvis, that despicable traitor. I’d put a bounty on him myself, but then half of Vegas would be dead.” 

Nandor shakes his head. “I don’t think Guillermo’s here on vampire slaying business.” 

“Hmm.” The other vampire looks thoughtful. “Have you scolded him yet for disappearing on you? Don’t get me wrong, Nadja and I are glad that your sulking fits have made you productive, but we’re running out of display cases for all your paper horses--”

“I have not been _sulking_. And origami is a respectable artistic endeavor.”

Besides, he can create more than horses. There are pegasi, kelpies, and unicorns, too. 

“Nandor,” Laszlo says, laying his hand on Nandor’s shoulders, “I don’t give a fuck.”

Nandor says, “That is not very polite. You don’t see me insulting your shrubs.” 

“Yes, well, you’re a grown vampire and you should be able to handle your affairs in a mature fashion like a passionate lover like myself.” 

“That is about half correct,” says Nadja, who abruptly joins them, turning a corner down the hall.

“My marvelous mistress of the moonlight,” Laszlo says, with a flourish and a bow, “am I not passionate enough for you?”

She rolls her eyes. “ _Please_ don’t start right now. Anyways -- Nandor, we put some material in the guest bedroom drawer in case you need it. Best of luck.”

“Yes, knock on wood. Or rather, knock his wood.” 

“The fuck are you talking about?” Nandor says. 

“Oh,” he says, when he opens the bedside drawer in the guest room, his curiosity getting the better of him. There’s a jar of lubricant, a pack of condoms, a pair of handcuffs, three cock rings, two dildos, and a finger of ginger.

Dirty-minded perverts. 

He’s puzzling over the last item -- is it for snacking purposes? does Guillermo drink ginger tea? -- when Guillermo enters the bedroom. He’s wearing a bathrobe, his hair still partly wet, his spectacles slightly fogged up.

Nandor shuts the bedside drawer with a loud slam. “Guillermo! I was making sure the room was ready for you.”

“-- Are those flower petals?”

Fucking Laszlo and Nadja.

Nandor brushes them off the bedcovers. “There was a vase and it spilled. It’s nothing.” 

Guillermo looks bemused, but dismisses it. He walks to the dresser and sets his bag down with a clank. He begins rifling through its contents, and, relieved for the distraction, Nandor hurries to peer over his shoulder.

Stake, stake, stake, clothes, energy bars, first aid kit, holy water grenades, rosary, canteen, stake, and--

“You have a dagger,” Nandor says. That must be the silver he’s been smelling from Guillermo. In fact, he bets that Guillermo had it attached to his belt underneath his coat earlier. There is an ornate cross on the dagger’s hilt -- there is a ruby red stone as its pommel -- and Nandor can sense something sacred and terrible emanating from it.

Guillermo murmurs an assent. Eventually, he retrieves what he was looking for -- a handkerchief for his glasses -- and he wipes the condensation from the lenses. 

“Souvenir from the Seventh Dimension,” Guillermo says, after he puts his glasses back on. “Um, the Holy Knife. Big name vampire hunting weapon that went missing sometime in the sixteenth century. Used for the assassinations of Molvath the Malevolent and the Wolf of Gubbio. And rumors say that it was the blade that cut baby Jes--the-J-guy’s foreskin… yeah, not really sure about that one…” 

“Do you even know how to wield it properly?” Nandor says, eyeing it dubiously. 

“Can’t be that much harder than a stake.” Guillermo’s shoulders slump a little. “Shit. That’s not a threat or anything.” He says, after a beat, “Nandor, I don’t know how this is supposed to go.”

“It is a little awkward,” Nandor admits, and then, quietly, he reaches for Guillermo’s hand. “You promised that you were going to play a chess match with me over the Interweb. I was waiting the entire night, and then you didn’t reply to any of my messages.” 

“I know. Sorry.” Guillermo looks down at their clasped hands. “It’s such a mess… all of it. I thought you guys could be plenty messy, but there are so many people and semi-immortal beings out there that can be a thousand times more ridiculous.” He lets out a low laugh. “I guess eternity -- and magic -- just makes everything more complicated.”

Nandor says, “Not everything has to be complicated, you know.” He doesn’t care for all this philosophical talk. He is who he is, and he is what vampirism made him. 

He is a warrior and leader; he is a craftsman and disco enthusiast. He knows military strategy like the back of his hand, and he knows how to wield scimitars and maces. He likes glitter and origami and _Twilight_ coloring books and basketball and this short bespectacled human who used to look at him like he was something shining and divine--

Sometime after Guillermo left, the documentary had premiered. It had bombed badly, critics and audiences dismissing it for its silly premise and lousy special effects.

But Nandor had watched it, and there was Guillermo. Looking at him from the edge of the frame, admiration and exasperated fondness in his eyes. Attending to him by his coffin, brushing his hair and straightening his cape.

_Does he still look at me like this?_

Nandor searches for the answer on Guillermo’s face. 

And he says, “I missed you, and I’m glad you are alive and have successfully obtained your penis knife. Do you want to talk about what happened?” 

All at once, Guillermo’s arms are around him. He’s burying his face in Nandor’s chest, this man who smells like burning holy things, this man whose longing gaze he fears has turned away from him--

And by all the gods and prophets that Nandor cannot name, by all the blessings and prayers that he is no longer entitled to, he finds it. He is the same. 

He wraps his arms around Guillermo in turn and they cling to each other, intertwined and entwined.

“I don’t want to think about it right now,” Guillermo mumbles, and he pulls back from the embrace. “Can I-- can you--?” 

“You’re still a virgin,” Nandor says, smiling a fanged smile. 

“It’s yours,” Guillermo says. “I’m--” His voice cuts off, embarrassed, abashed; his face is a light-flushed blush. 

“Yes,” Nandor says. “I’ll take everything you give me. It is a suitable offering after your lack of correspondence. It is what humans call ghosting, but it does not involve actual ghosts.” 

Guillermo laughs. He laughs, and Nandor kisses that laughter on his mouth, as if he can take it and keep it within him and have it nourish him, like blood itself, and they are kissing and kissing. 

Guillermo’s bathrobe is easily shucked off. Nandor fumbles to remove his own clothing layer by layer. It’s a haze of heat and anticipation, and soon, they are curled bare on the bed. 

Nandor keeps taking kisses. Guillermo’s mouth is warm, open, and he lets him kiss and kiss and kiss again. Nandor’s fangs scrape against Guillermo’s bottom lip but don’t quite break skin. 

They arch against each other. It’s a sharp contrast: Nandor, his chest covered in dark thick hair, the line of it trailing to his stomach and genitals; Guillermo, his skin smooth and his stomach finely-round. Guillermo’s dick is a small, plump pressure against his thigh -- certainly not as big as Nandor’s -- but what he makes up in shaft length is more than compensated for by the size of his scrotum. 

Guillermo murmurs wordless noises into every kiss. Nandor has to remind himself that humans need to breathe, because it’s easy to get lost in the wet breathless smack of kisses. It’s easy to keep holding -- _lifting_ \-- Guillermo against him, his hand grasping Guillermo’s expansive buttock.

He breaks off the kiss. He shifts his focus, placing a soft closed-mouthed kiss against Guillermo’s neck, then latching onto a nipple. He can hear and sense Guillermo’s throbbing heart, pumping blood through arteries and veins and capillaries. 

As he listens, the taste of Guillermo on his tongue makes his mouth water and his jaw sink down, and Guillermo lets out a startled cry. Quickly, Nandor disengages and sees two bite marks blooming red on the areola.

Guillermo says, “I thought you said you just ate.” 

“I couldn’t help it,” Nandor says, awkwardly. He swallows the droplets of Guillermo’s blood in his mouth. He tastes like sweetness; he tastes like newly forged silver. “-- I know what I’m doing, Guillermo.” 

“Just…keep going.” 

He decides to resume his progress downward -- away from where he can hear the rush of blood so loudly. More closed-mouthed kisses; more prickling nuzzles with the scruff of his beard. He’s working his way to Guillermo’s waist, gently rubbing the folds of Guillermo’s stomach between his fingertips.

Squat and pudgy, Guillermo’s dick fits into Nandor’s hand. Guillermo’s thighs are quivering while Nandor jerks him, and he’s making those sounds again, incoherent and stuttering from the back of his throat. 

So this is what it feels like to want to devour someone completely. The tang of Guillermo’s blood still sings against his teeth, and Nandor wants to eat him and break him and fuck him all at once. 

Every motion -- every twist of his hand -- sends waves rippling across Guillermo’s middle. Nandor’s head is half-buried there, while his fingers fumble and stroke, until finally, he gives in and takes Guillermo’s cock in his mouth. 

Nandor does his best to be careful with his fangs this time. Shifting with the swirl of his tongue and the bob of his chin, he bends down and he _sucks_ , prompting Guillermo’s entire body to heave and strain.

He tastes good. It’s as good as his blood, maybe even better, and Nandor massages the sagging skin of Guillermo’s scrotum as he eases him into his mouth.

He picks up the pace, his mouth nudging and rocking against him; the rhythm thrilling through Guillermo’s broad frame.

“ _Master,”_ Guillermo says, a staggered gasp. The sound of the title makes him feel a _roaring_ possessiveness, and he slips off Guillermo’s dick, a strand of spend trailing off, and he reaches up again and he kisses that _mouth_ , that _mouth_ that still knows to call him _master_ \--

Pulling back, Guillermo rubs the seed on Nandor’s beard with his thumb, and he’s smiling, small and slight. Then he initiates the next kiss, his eyes drifting closed, and they return to that slow, deep frenzy of kisses. 

He wonders: Why haven’t they done this earlier? Guillermo had been by his side for a decade, and Nandor could have touched him at any time. Has his mouth always been this eager and wet and wanting? Has his fingers always been this warm and certain as they weave through his? 

He draws back, long dark strands of his hair pooling in between them, and he sets his hand against Guillermo’s neck. 

“You can have it,” he says, carefully. “I will give it to you, Guillermo. Just tell me yes.” And he kisses him again.

“What--?”

“You know what I mean,” Nandor says, his voice a low rumble. “Give me the word, Guillermo. I shall show you how to drain humans, fly in the air, and floss your fangs. All of it. Everything you want.” 

He tightens his hold on Guillermo’s throat, and very deliberately, grinds his thigh against Guillermo’s cock. Guillermo pants and writhes against him.

“I am asking you, Guillermo,” Nandor says, impatient. “One word. The go-ahead. The gray light.”

“Green,” Guillermo corrects, biting his kiss-swollen lips, his gaze locked on Nandor’s shimmering sharp fangs. 

“That.” Nandor tilts his head to his side. “Just say yes.” He leans closer, his fangs poised and hovering. 

He’s pleased with himself. He knows about consent. Colin Robinson had once returned from a mandatory workplace harassment prevention training, droning on about the definition of enthusiastic consent and related scenarios, which is a subject that thirteenth-century-pillagers aren’t very well-versed. If that was what humans are doing these days along with dabbing and wearing leggings, so be it. 

Guillermo looks at him, his dark eyes flickering--

\--and then, suddenly, Guillermo snaps out -- “ _estás en el cielo, santificado sea tu nombre_ ” -- and Nandor flinches, hisses in pain, feeling as if he had been struck by sunlight. It’s like the world has flipped upside down, and now Guillermo has his hand clenched around Nandor’s throat, pressing Nandor down onto the bed.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Guillermo says, in disbelief. “You -- you were going to turn me to make me stay. You can’t -- you can’t do that. After all these years, offering me immortality on a platter _out of nowhere_.” 

“I would’ve given it to you. I meant it when I promised.” Nandor frowns. His ears are ringing a little. “Don’t speak in holy tongues anymore, Guillermo. It hurts.” 

Guillermo sighs. “You seriously don’t understand what’s wrong with that? Nandor, I’m not your servant anymore. Don’t make being a vampire a gift or an obligation. You can’t chain me here.” 

“It’ll be different,” Nandor retorts, stubbornly. “You won’t live in the closet. You’ll be a proper Staten Island vampire, like Laszlo and Nadja and Colin Robinson. And we can keep doing this.” Unabashed, he gestures to their unclothed bodies. “Don’t try to tell me you don’t like it. I can see how hard your small stake is.” 

He adds, “And by stake, I meant your penis, Guillermo. Not actual vampire-killing equipment.” 

Guillermo blushes again. “I know! That’s different. What I mean is that you can’t spring that. I still have more things to do, and I have to do it as a vampire hunter, not a vampire.”

“But--”

“No buts.” Guillermo presses his finger against Nandor’s lips. “Don’t do that again. Not unless I ask you first.” 

There are a million objections on the tip of Nandor’s tongue. He doesn’t think he can stand it anymore: Guillermo leaving again, off to do who-knows-what with that fragile human body of his. What if he does come back covered in blood that’s his own? What if he gets trampled by a horse or decapitated by a sewing machine? 

Nandor doesn’t mind if Guillermo ages -- salt-and-pepper-grey-hair, a dignified brow, and wrinkled laugh lines -- what humans call a silver wolf, you know -- but he doesn’t want the window of opportunity to be too narrow for resurrection.

“There’s always one more thing you have to do,” Nandor says, his forehead clunking against Guillermo’s. “It’s waiting and more waiting. Well, I don’t like waiting, Guillermo. It’s boring.” 

“I know you don’t,” Guillermo says, no doubt recalling all the times when Nandor loathed queueing at the apothecary or the supermarket. “Sorry, I know you’re worrying…” 

“I’m not worried.”

He feels like a fool immediately after he says it. It’s one of the most blatant lies he’s ever told in his long life, and Guillermo, of course, sees completely through him.

“Let me finish this,” Guillermo says, gently, his hand going to Nandor’s hair, “and then we’ll see what’s next. And,” he adds, his eyes crinkling, something pained but accepting in his eyes, “you don’t have to wait. There are other familiars. Other ‘friends.” 

Nandor scoffs. “Do you think _I_ want someone else? _I_ , Nandor the _Relentless?_ I got you first, before anyone else, and _you_ are giving me your precious virginity.”

“I am,” Guillermo says, “since I was nineteen, Nandor, I thought-- I wanted--” His face is flaring red again. He doesn’t look like the powerful determined vampire slayer from moments earlier.

“Because you are mine,” Nandor says. “I don’t care if you’re a vampire killer. I don’t care if you’re not my familiar. This is mine,” he says, touching Guillermo’s mouth, “and this,” his throat, the mortal life and blood that pulses through him, “and this,” his body, the arc of his belly, the bulge of his length, the firmness of his ass. 

Guillermo exhales a shuddering breath as Nandor’s fingers skim his backside, tracing circles across flesh. And he lets Nandor take nearly everything -- everything except his humanity -- but for once, Nandor accepts what he’s been given. This one night, and the promise of nights to come. He hopes and he hopes and he _loves_. 

**

(“So, you said no butts? Then I shouldn’t--”

“Master, shut up and fuck me.”)

**

Nights later, even after Guillermo leaves, Nandor still tastes silver in the back of his mouth like a balm. 


End file.
